The burden of the artist.... a product

The burden of the artist is a product. A common question I hear students and fellow artists ask, " So what do we do with all this art? " Performing artists, dancers, actors, singers and musicians have to practice their craft constantly: exercises, lines, steps, chords etc but they don't produce a physical thing, a product. It is invisible and then visible in the final dance, song or performance. Artists, especially those who go into their studios everyday and are prolific are faced with the burden of "What do I do with all of this work?" Even those who enjoy relative success in sales face this conundrum. The problem is exacerbated in the pandemic. 

Artists need to make work now more than ever. Even if you are in a gallery, sales have
dropped off dramatically. What is the answer? Do we stop making work? Work on paper? Repurpose art that falls short into collage? Give art away? Throw art away? Many artists work out of tiny spaces
with no storage. I used to work out of our laundry room. It was 4 by 6 ft and the washer
and dryer took up a third of the room.

I just learned about Luchita Hurtado, an artist who died at 99 and became a sensation in 
her 90's. Her art was rarely exhibited until the 70's and then only sporadically in small
venues. That did not daunt her. She worked on her art at night when everyone else was 
asleep. She said "Art was a constant, a need, like brushing your teeth." It is also our legacy. Our son, Alex's response to these musings was, It is your legacy, it lives on through all the work you give to us, to everyone you love, the work you have sold and donated. He is right. So keep making art and keep brushing your teeth!

My Soul Hurts

My soul hurts,
my heart hurts.
This is a new low for me,
For America.
Two countries divided by Trump.
Divided by
Racism
Hatred
Bigotry
Greed
Ignorance
Capitalism


In less three months 105,000 people have died
from Covid19 and Trump calls in the military
police to clear peaceful protesters with tear gas
and rubber bullets. My friends son from Harwich,
Tyler Nickerson, was one of them. He was arrested
that night. He had never been in a protest, was not
a political activist per se and had never been in jail.
He just felt he had to do SOMETHING!

Passionate, caring people of all ages and colors came
together for a peaceful protest, their right and get gassed
and shot at so Trump can stand in front of St. Johns's
church to have a photo opp of him holding " a bible ",
not even his bible ( which he probably doesn't even own )
He stood with his all white male cabinet and one young
white woman with a black military type jacket and not one
was wearing a mask.

more to follow...

What is your zone?

I am the official artist in the family. It is hard to truly understand an artist
unless you are one. It's not like we are in some special club but we do experience something that is hard to explain. It is a zone; a place where everything falls away, where time is not time. The first
place I experienced it was in the darkroom. Minutes turned into hours and in the glow of the orange safelights time had no relevance. The darkroom is probably the penultimate when it comes to being
in the zone. For me painting comes in second. There are many ways people experience this feeling.
Anything that transports us to a place where we lose all sense of time; gardening, running, listening to
or playing music, reading, surfing, skiing. The list goes on. Imagine my delight when my sister in law
took a dog painting workshop and described how much she loved it and said " I really felt like I was in the zone!" What a thrill to hear those words. Welcome to my, not always, but sometimes, glorious world. What is your Zone?

Colors of Baja, Mexico ( part 1 )

On this grey, dismal Cape Cod day I yearn for the warmth of Baja, Mexico. 

Images flash through my mind like a Kodachrome slide show. The colors are

saturated and rich. Earthy reds, browns and grays of the arid landscape contrast

with the brilliant green palm trees, the sage colored cactus and bushes

speckled with color that sprouts from wildflowers.

When you look at the soil; so dry, cracked and unforgiving it's hard to believe 

that anything can grow there.Yet lemons, oranges, limes, kiwi, coconut and avocados

thrive . We saw fields of deep green basil in earth that had been irrigated and 

enriched. The aroma was intoxicating.  And eggs.... eggs are everywhere. Every

roadside stand, every market big and small , every gas station. Where there are eggs

there are chickens. The first gallery we stopped in had the most 

stunning rooster wandering around. Giselle, an artist who sells her jewelry in the 

gallery said he was supposed to stay outside but "she's spoiled him" Viva Todos 

Santos!!

I'm not sure I want this woman in my house

I'm not sure I want this woman in my house, actually, I'm sure I don't want this
woman in my house......I have to say my relationship with " Alexa " has been
pretty favorable. With a few exceptions of inadequacies, ie song
requests, stock prices and I can't recall what else, though I'm  sure there
were some pretty major ones.

I try to say "thank you" and sometimes I do but then I realize that is really ridiculous.
Sometimes I want to swear at her, tell her she is useless, WTF...... I'm sure you have all
felt this way, we are all human.
My sister makes her husband apologize when he is abusive and I hope he doesn't.


She is living in our house. I never really felt her presence until tonight. I was having
a cozy candlelight dinner by myself when I kept noticing Alexa was glowing an orange
glow. I tried to say nicely " Alexa Off." but she kept spinning and glowing . OK , this is
getting creepy and annoying as shit so I moved her to where I couldn't see her because if
I unplugged her I would have to go through the hassle of having to reset her.

Why is this woman in my house??

end of part one , all this technology has me ready for bed.

What's the Point?

This is a question every artist has asked themselves; maybe it haunts them regularly
or just at low points. You are in your studio alone, looking at all this work, thinking
"What's the point? No one is going to buy this work. What am I going to do with it all? "

When it is highly personal work that question is even more vexing. Sometimes you are
deep into a series, digging away at what even you don't know. There is no roadmap for the
emotions that come up and out of you, out of a deep place." How can someone else understand
this if I don't? I don't know. I just know it calls me and so I believe there will be answers to the questions. That there is a point.

If there's a problem, fix it

Art is the opposite of math and other studies. There is no one answer and yet there are

many problems. Once you solve one  you often create another. Abstract art is challenging in 

that it is so personal and primal.The rules are the same. You have to pull all the elements of art

together in one piece; composition, color, value, line, pattern, balance, rhythm....... easy, right?

My experience has been that abstract art is not easier, it is actually harder. You are not trying to render a scene, still life, or model as they appear in front of you. You are trying to reinterpret them

in another language entirely, your language. Another way many abstract artists work is entirely from their imagination and intuition.

If you don't have a knowledge of abstract art it is easy to dismiss it. Despite my art education

and exposure to the arts I did not understand it until I took an abstract painting class with

Norma Mutch.  Art feels so much more expansive. My painting alternates between the two worlds of abstraction and realism. When I go to museums and galleries the experience

doubles in richness. Photography still feels like an integral part of my process but even that is 

changing. 

Charlie's Tree

9/6/18

I woke up at 5:45, brewed my french press and brought my a asian mug
out to my favorite chaise. The morning was cloudy yet as I sat looking over
at my neighbors yard I noticed the trunk of her tree was glowing an orangey
red. It was so incredible I felt like I was seeing things. I grabbed my camera
to see if I could capture it . Moments later it was gone. It felt so powerfully
like Charlie was in that tree; glowing and shining his light on me and telling
me he was happy.

The morning after he died I was sitting on the same chaise weeping and the
tiniest dragon fly landed on my knee and stayed there for a long, long time.
I wasn't totally sure about that but I am totally sure about this. On a cloudy
day with no sun this tree was GLOWING ! My Charlie bear, my love, shining
his light

on me. Nature is my greatest healer. That tree will always be
my " Charlie Tree "

Why do artists charge so much for their work?

Twenty five years ago I walked into the Lange Miller Gallery with my mother.

The building was old with tall ceilings, wide pine floors and the space was

flooded with light. The first thing I saw was a 5 by 5 ft oil painting

of peonies, tulips, a chair, pears and an empty white plate. The painting was a

riot of color and it literally stopped me in my tracks. I stood there completely

transfixed for 5 minutes, saying over and over, "Mum, look at this, can you believe it?'

I could barely breathe and I knew I was experiencing something profound.

My mother quietly went into the back of the gallery and told the artist, Janvier Miller,

she was buying the painting for me. It was $5000- and it was "my birthday present for

the rest of my life" It was the first real painting I ever owned.

Most mornings I have my coffee with this painting. It is like a muse of sorts. I never

love it less. At the time, $ 5000- seemed like a lot of money but now I truly understand

"why artists charge so much for their art " The response to that question, which was

asked of me a few days ago, will be my next blog.

My Shore Road

Everything was different then; my grandparents house was grand.
Even before George Colt wrote " The Big House " we all referred to
it as such. The Briggs/ Birch house was was pretty grand as well with
it's fabulous windmill standing high on the bluff, greeting fisherman and women
as they came in with their catch.

We knew everyone from the Townsend/Weller house next door all the way to the

Burroughs house on "the point". There was a wooden turnstile between our house and the 

Townsend's, symbolic of friendship and welcome. There were no fences or privet hedges

between the other houses so we all ran freely back and forth across the properties.

That's how it was. 

Three generations; our grandparents, our parents and us. The Townsends, the Lincolns,

the Tyners, the Briggs, the Russells, the Garres, and the Burroughs. Of the seven houses

five have been torn down and the big house and it's two side cottages are unrecognizable.

When I drove by the big house on Sunday I thought it had been gutted by a fire. This feels

more tragic. My friend called it "wanton disregard" for the history of a place, it's charm 

and how it fits into the landscape. I could weep.

Proud to be an American?

Last night I went to a concert and the performer kept saying she was
" Proud to be an American " I beg to differ. I can only speak for myself.
I feel like I am living in a chilling time with a president who got elected on
 a platform of change and is staying elected on a platform of silence.

In my opinion he is a man with no moral compass, no understanding of history
and no political experience. He is a dangerous man, revealing and exploiting the
darkest side of humanity. There is no greater perpetrator of " fake news. " I can only pray
that this too shall pass but I fear it will not be soon.

Wren's buoy nest

It was rainy, foggy and windy until the last week of June
and then the magic began.

Every morning I wake to the birds outside my window.
I get up and have my coffee on the terrace around 6am.

Yesterday I noticed the tiniest wren flying around the buoys
hanging from the outside shower. In and out, in and out with
twigs in her tiny beak. She would perch on the fence chirping away
and then take take her treasure into the perfect hole inside the buoy.
It was like watching an incredible movie or reading a book you can't put
down. Nature is my church!

Values Matter

I am sitting at the kitchen table feeling humbled and small after my painting class.
I struggled all morning to get a decent drawing/ underpainting of two pears in a bowl;
yes, two frigging pears in a bowl. I came home with nothing but a piece of 12 by 18
canvas paper toned with burnt umber and the realization that I didn't know squat about
drawing, painting, color and especially value.

After class I decided to go to Whole Foods; when in doubt, food shop. I needed two things and yet I managed to spend $100 which fit in two brown paper bags. At least dinner was covered and I found
the two items.

 I got home ,left the brown grocery bags on the kitchen table and unloaded the painting supplies. As I hauled in the last of the supplies my bin of oil paints slipped out of my hands
leaving a nice stain of cadmium red on the carpet. Was this a sign?

Later, as I sat down to eat lunch I looked at the still unpacked  grocery bags on the table.
Nestled between the the various writing on the bag, "watermelon, green juice, organic eggs, sushi"
was "Values Matter" I looked at it in disbelief. Though I am discouraged, part of me feels this could be a really important day for me. "Values Matter "

The "Washashore " aka "Chatham Charlie "story part 2

The response to the cover photo was so positive that Lisa Franz, the Executive director of the Chatham Chamber of Commerce, decided to use him in the current cross marketing campaign. Her Operations Manager and right hand woman, Danita Scribner, came up with the idea to call him "Chatham Charlie". So this will be the summer of Charlie for the Litwin family and the town of Chatham. My husband Paul is beside himself. He is obsessed with all three of our Goldens ( our 15 year old girl Jamie and our 10 month old puppy Rosie ) but Charlie has clearly stolen his heart. Our boys, Peter 27 and Alex 25, loved marching in the 4th of July parade with Charlie.

We hope he brings a smile to your face and helps you discover the many wonderful places to go and see in Chatham. The card, print and posters are available at Local Color Art Gallery on Rte 28 in W.Chatham. The posters are also available at Where the Sidewalk Ends Bookstore, Chatham Clothing Company, The Chamber Visiter Center on Rte 28 and the visiter booth in the middle of Chatham center. Proceeds from the sale of the poster will go to the Chamber's scholarship fund and local animal rescue efforts. For more updates check out and "like" Chatham Charlies FB page as well as the Chatham Chamber of Commerce FB page. Wishing you all an EPIC summer and don't forget to take time to smell the roses.

The story behind "Chatham Charlie" aka "Washashore" Part 1

Charlie was 8 months old when I took the photo of him in the washed up blue dory. Last year

the photo was featured on the "Welcome to Chatham" page of the Chamber's guidebook. To have it picked as the cover shot is truly a thrill and an honor!

So many people have asked about the story behind the photo that I decided to share it on my blog. When you live here year round people ask "What do you do here off season?" The short answer is " I walk on the beach and take lots of photos. " On a chilly day in late April we walked was out to see the new cut with my friend Ann Brown. On the way back we decided to walk the inside of South Beach and that is when we saw the washed up blue dory. It was Ann's idea to put Charlie in the boat. He was good at sit, stay and look good even at 8 months. I took a few shots with my point and shoot Canon Power Shot and the rest is history.

I thought it would be fun to call it "Washashore" as I am a summer girl, aka "Washashore" My grandparents, Dick and Jean Tyner bought a house here in the 1920's and I have never missed a summer. The distinction between " a local " and "a washashore" is very clear and some people take it quite seriously. Even though Charlie was raised here he was born in Upton, MA at LazeDaze Kennels. Therefore he is and always will be a " Washashore " He's cool with it.

Writing as Prayer

"Although we seldom talk about it in these terms, writing is a means of prayer.
It connects us to the invisible world. It gives us a gate for the other world to talk to us
whether we call it the subconscious, the superconscious, the imagination, or the Muse.
Writing gives us a place to welcome more than rationale. It opens the door to inspiration.
Writing is a spiritual housekeeper. Writing sets things straight, giving us a sense of our
true priorities. "

March 10
From The Artist Way Every Day
by Julia Cameron

Magic Happens

Above all, watch with
glittering eyes the whole world around
you because the greatest secrets are always
hidden in the most unlikely places.
Those who don't believe in magic
will never find it.

Roald Dahl

Cape Cod's second blizzard

The Cork Sorter

The house, which doubled as a gallery, was well worn. Canvas's and bottles filled the large window
overlooking Main street on the east end of town. The art work had an old school Provincetown feeling and when I walked through the front door I felt like I was traveling through time. The hall lead into a living room filled with canvas's of all sizes. The house was dark and musty in an oddly inviting way and I heard my husband say " Do you think they are open? " A woman's voice responded "We're a little dusty, if you don't mind dust, we're open."

Settled comfortably at an oversized roll top desk behind the front door sat a small, round woman with twinkly eyes and gray hair. She had a box of corks in her lap from all the local restaurants. On the floor,
up against the wall and under the window were hundreds of corks in boxes of all sizes. Next to her tattered old swivel chair sat a tiny wooden table with a large zip lock bag of more corks. She explained the why of all the corks. "I am the sorter of the corks." she said contentedly. "I go through all these corks, separate the good ones and we sell them to buy trees. When you go to the library you will see three new trees, they are cork trees!"

This happy little woman had me at "corks."The more I talked to her the more enchanted I became. Her husband, who sat snoozing in the back room, was the painter. In the kitchen a big tropical bird sat on a perch in it's cage. She told me it was her "best friend." Seventeen years ago they agreed to take care of it for three weeks. The owner never returned. The bird is a great talker and confidante.

She invited us to wander through the house. Alongside her husband sat two dogs and three cats. On the kitchen table there was marmalade, jam, toast and an ancient teapot. She told us they had moved to Provincetown 50 years ago. "A lot has changed since then. There were two teachers and two nurses."
I assumed she meant the other women she was friends with. She held up the baggie of corks and said "These are the corks I cannot part with, some are very rare, some are just too beautiful to part with and some have phone numbers on them to call. Of course I have to call them" she said with an enchanting twinkle in her eye.

" You're my best friend "